Chapter IV: Preface (4)

Gracie looked around with an air of utter desolation, and began to cry. “I wanted to give them something,” said she. “I’d rather go barefoot on the snow all day, than not send ’em anything.”

“Give me the stockings, my child,” said the old soldier, tenderly. “There, I’ll take ’em, and show ’em to the soldiers, and tell them what the little girl said that sent them. And it will do them as much good as if they could wear them. They’ve got little girls at home, too.” Gracie fell on her mother’s bosom completely happy, and Aunt Hitty only muttered,

“Everybody does spile that child; and no wonder, neither!”

Soon the old sleigh drove off from the brown house, tightly packed and heavily loaded. And Gracie and Dicky were creeping up to their little beds.

“There’s been something put on the altar of Liberty to-night, hasn’t there, Dick?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Dick; and, looking up to his mother, he said, “But, mother, what did you give?”

“I?” said the mother, musingly.

“Yes, you, mother; what have you given to the country?”

“All that I have, dears,” said she, laying her hands gently on their heads,--“my husband and my children!”

II.--THE ALTAR OF ----, OR 1850.

The setting sun of chill December lighted up the solitary front window of a small tenement on ---- street, which we now have occasion to visit. As we push gently aside the open door, we gain sight of a small room, clean as busy hands can make it, where a neat, cheerful young mulatto woman is busy at an ironing-table. A basket full of glossy-bosomed shirts, and faultless collars and wristbands, is beside her, into which she is placing the last few items with evident pride and satisfaction. A bright, black-eyed boy, just come in from school, with his satchel of books over his shoulder, stands, cap in hand, relating to his mother how he has been at the head of his class, and showing his school-tickets, which his mother, with untiring admiration, deposits in the little real china tea-pot,--which, as being their most reliable article of gentility, is made the deposit of all the money and most especial valuables of the family.

“Now, Henry,” says the mother, “look out and see if father is coming along the street;” and she begins filling the little black tea-kettle, which is soon set singing on the stove.

From the inner room now daughter Mary, a well-grown girl of thirteen, brings the baby, just roused from a nap, and very impatient to renew his acquaintance with his mamma.

“Bless his bright eyes!--mother will take him,” ejaculates the busy little woman, whose hands are by this time in a very floury condition, in the incipient stages of wetting up biscuit,--“in a minute;” and she quickly frees herself from the flour and paste, and, deputing Mary to roll out her biscuit, proceeds to the consolation and succor of young master.

“Now, Henry,” says the mother, “you’ll have time, before supper, to take that basket of clothes up to Mr. Sheldin’s;--put in that nice bill, that you made out last night. I shall give you a cent for every bill you write out for me. What a comfort it is, now, for one’s children to be gettin’ learnin’ so!”

Henry shouldered the basket, and passed out the door, just as a neatly-dressed colored man walked up, with his pail and white-wash brushes.

“O, you’ve come, father, have you?--Mary, are the biscuits in?--you may as well set the table, now. Well, George, what’s the news?”

“Nothing, only a pretty smart day’s work. I’ve brought home five dollars, and shall have as much as I can do, these two weeks;” and the man, having washed his hands, proceeded to count out his change on the ironing-table.

“Well, it takes you to bring in the money,” said the delighted wife; “nobody but you could turn off that much in a day!”

“Well, they do say--those that’s had me once--that they never want any other hand to take hold in their rooms. I s’pose its a kinder practice I’ve got, and kinder natural!”

“Tell ye what,” said the little woman, taking down the family strong box,--to wit, the china tea-pot, aforenamed,--and pouring the contents on the table, “we’re getting mighty rich, now! We can afford to get Henry his new Sunday-cap, and Mary her muslin-de-laine dress;--take care, baby, you rogue!” she hastily interposed, as young master made a dive at a dollar bill, for his share in the proceeds.

“He wants something, too, I suppose,” said the father; “let him get his hand in while he’s young.”

The baby gazed, with round, astonished eyes, while mother, with some difficulty, rescued the bill from his grasp; but, before any one could at all anticipate his purpose, he dashed in among the small change with such zeal as to send it flying all over the table.

“Hurra!--Bob’s a smasher!” said the father, delighted; “he’ll make it fly, he thinks;” and, taking the baby on his knee, he laughed merrily, as Mary and her mother pursued the rolling coin all over the room.

“He knows now, as well as can be, that he’s been doing mischief,” said the delighted mother, as the baby kicked and crowed uproariously;--“he’s such a forward child, now, to be only six months old!--O, you’ve no idea, father, how mischievous he grows,” and therewith the little woman began to roll and tumble the little mischief-maker about, uttering divers frightful threats, which appeared to contribute, in no small degree, to the general hilarity.

“Come, come, Mary,” said the mother, at last, with a sudden burst of recollection; “you mustn’t be always on your knees fooling with this child!--Look in the oven at them biscuits.”

“They’re done exactly, mother,--just the brown!”--and, with the word, the mother dumped baby on to his father’s knee, where he sat contentedly munching a very ancient crust of bread, occasionally improving the flavor thereof by rubbing it on his father’s coat-sleeve.

“What have you got in that blue dish, there?” said George, when the whole little circle were seated around the table.

“Well, now, what _do_ you suppose?” said the little woman, delighted;--“a quart of nice oysters,--just for a treat, you know. I wouldn’t tell you till this minute,” said she, raising the cover.

“Well,” said George, “we both work hard for our money, and we don’t owe anybody a cent; and why shouldn’t we have our treats, now and then, as well as rich folks?”

And gayly passed the supper hour; the tea-kettle sung, the baby crowed, and all chatted and laughed abundantly.

“I’ll tell you,” said George, wiping his mouth, “wife, these times are quite another thing from what it used to be down in Georgia. I remember then old Mas’r used to hire me out by the year; and one time, I remember, I came and paid him in two hundred dollars,--every cent I’d taken. He just looked it over, counted it, and put it in his pocket-book, and said, ‘You are a good boy, George,’--and he gave me _half-a-dollar_!”

“I want to know, now!” said his wife.

“Yes, he did, and that was every cent I ever got of it; and, I tell you, I was mighty bad off for clothes, them times.”

“Well, well, the Lord be praised, they’re over, and you are in a free country now!” said the wife, as she rose thoughtfully from the table, and brought her husband the great Bible. The little circle were ranged around the stove for evening prayers.

“Henry, my boy, you must read,--you are a better reader than your father,--thank God, that let you learn early!”

The boy, with a cheerful readiness, read, “The Lord is my shepherd,” and the mother gently stilled the noisy baby, to listen to the holy words. Then all kneeled, while the father, with simple earnestness, poured out his soul to God.

They had but just risen,--the words of Christian hope and trust scarce died on their lips,--when lo! the door was burst open, and two men entered; and one of them advancing, laid his hand on the father’s shoulder. “This is the fellow,” said he.

“You are arrested in the name of the United States!” said the other.

“Gentlemen, what is this?” said the poor man, trembling.

“Are you not the property of _Mr. B._, of Georgia?” said the officer.

“Gentlemen, I’ve been a free, hard-working man, these ten years.”

“Yes, but you are arrested, on suit of Mr. B., as his slave.”

Shall we describe the leave-taking?--the sorrowing wife, the dismayed children, the tears, the anguish,--that simple, honest, kindly home, in a moment so desolated! Ah, ye who defend this because it is law, think, for one hour, what if this that happens to your poor brother should happen to you! * * * * *

It was a crowded court-room, and the man stood there to be tried--for life?--no; but for the life of life--for liberty!

Lawyers hurried to and fro, buzzing, consulting, bringing authorities,--all anxious, zealous, engaged,--for what?--to save a fellow-man from bondage?--no; anxious and zealous lest he might escape,--full of zeal to deliver him over to slavery. The poor man’s anxious eyes follow vainly the busy course of affairs, from which he dimly learns that he is to be sacrificed--on the altar of the Union; and that his heart-break and anguish, and the tears of his wife, and the desolation of his children, are, in the eyes of these well-informed men, only the bleat of a sacrifice, bound to the horns of the glorious American altar! * * * * *

Again it is a bright day, and business walks brisk in this market. Senator and statesman, the learned and patriotic, are out, this day, to give their countenance to an edifying and impressive, and truly American spectacle,--the sale of a man! All the preliminaries of the scene are there; dusky-browed mothers, looking with sad eyes while speculators are turning round their children,--looking at their teeth, and feeling of their arms; a poor, old, trembling woman, helpless, half-blind, whose last child is to be sold, holds on to her bright boy with trembling hands. Husbands and wives, sisters and friends, all soon to be scattered like the chaff of the threshing-floor, look sadly on each other with poor nature’s last tears; and among them walk briskly glib, oily politicians, and thriving men of law, letters, and religion, exceedingly sprightly and in good spirits,--for why?--it isn’t _they_ that are going to be sold; it’s only somebody else. And so they are very comfortable, and look on the whole thing as quite a matter-of-course affair; and, as it is to be conducted to-day, a decidedly valuable and judicious exhibition.

And now, after so many hearts and souls have been knocked and thumped this way and that way by the auctioneer’s hammer, comes the _instructive_ part of the whole; and the husband and father, whom we saw in his simple home, reading and praying with his children, and rejoicing, in the joy of his poor ignorant heart, that he lived in a free country, is now set up to be admonished of his mistake.

Now there is great excitement, and pressing to see, and exultation and approbation; for it is important and interesting to see a man put down that has tried to be a _free man_.

“That’s he, is it?--Couldn’t come it, could he?” says one.

“No, and he will never come it, that’s more,” says another, triumphantly.

“I don’t generally take much interest in scenes of this nature,” says a grave representative;--“but I came here to-day for the sake of the _principle_!”

“Gentlemen,” says the auctioneer, “we’ve got a specimen here that some of your Northern abolitionists would give any price for; but they shan’t have him!--no! we’ve looked out for that. The man that buys him must give bonds never to sell him to go North again!”

“Go it!” shout the crowd, “good!--good!--hurra!” “An impressive idea!” says a senator; “a noble maintaining of principle!” and the man is bid off, and the hammer falls with a last crash on his hearth, and hopes, and manhood, and he lies a bleeding wreck on the altar of Liberty!

Such was the altar in 1776;--such is the altar in 1850!

OUTLINE OF A MAN.

In some of those castle-building day-dreams, in which, like all youth of an imaginative turn, I was wont, in my early days, to indulge, a favorite image of my creation was an _Africo-American for the time_,--a colored man, who had known by experience the bitterness of slavery, and now by some process free, so endowed with natural powers, and a certain degree of attainments, all the more rare and effective for being acquired under great disadvantages,--as to be a sort of Moses to his oppressed and degraded tribe. He was to be gifted with a noble person, of course, and refinement of manners, and some elegance of thought and expression; by what unprecedented miracle such a paragon was to be graduated through the educational appliances of American slavery, imagination did not trouble herself to inquire. She was painting fancy-pieces, not portraits.

Having thus irresponsibly struck out upon the canvas her central figure, she would not be slow to complete the picture with many a rose-colored vision of brilliant successes and magic triumphs won by her hero, in his great enterprise of the redemption of his people. A burning sense of their wrongs fired his eloquence with an undying, passionate earnestness, and as he alternately reproached the injustice, and appealed to the generosity of his oppressors, all opposition gave way before him; the masses, as one man, demanded the emancipation of his long-degraded, deeply injured race; and millions of regenerated men rose up, upon their broken chains and called him blessed.

Years rolled away, and these poetic fancies faded “into the light of common day.” The cold, stern, pitiless reality remained. The dark incubus of slavery yet rested down upon more than three millions of the victims of democratic despotism. But the triumphant champion of the devoted race had melted away, with the morning mists of my boyish conjuring.

One morning in the summer of 1844, walking up Main-street in the city of Hartford, I was attracted by the movements of a group of some twenty-five or thirty men and women, in a small recess, or court, by the side of the old Centre Church. They appeared to be organized into an assembly, and a tall mulatto was addressing them. I drew near to listen. The speaker was recounting the oft-enacted history of a flight from slavery. With his eye upon the cold, but true north star, and his ear ever and anon bent to the ground, listening for the “blood-hound’s savage bay,” sure-footed and panting, the fugitive was before me! My attention had been arrested; I was profoundly interested. The audience was the American Anti-slavery Society, then just excluded from some of the public halls of the city, and fain to content themselves, after an apostolic sort, with the _next best_ accommodations. The orator was FREDERICK DOUGLASS, the most remarkable man of this country, and of this age; and--may I not dare to add--the almost complete fulfilment of my early dream!

Since that day, through assiduous application, and a varied experience, he has continued to develop in the same wonderful ratio of improvement, which even then distinguished him as a prodigy in self-education. Unusually favored in personal appearance and address, full of generous impulse and delicate sensibility, exuberant in playful wit, or biting sarcasm, or stern denunciation, ever commanding in his moral attitude, earnest and impressive in manner, with a voice eminently sonorous and flexible, and gesture full of dramatic vivacity, I have many times seen large audiences swayed at his will; at one moment convulsed with laughter, and at the next, bathed in tears; now lured with admiration of the orator, and now with indignation at the oppressor, against whom he hurled his invective. But in my boyhood’s quasi-prophetic fancy of such a man and his inimitable success, I had not counted upon one antagonist, whose reality and potency, the observation of every day now forces painfully upon me. I mean the strange and unnatural _prejudice against mere color_, which is so all-prevalent in the American breast, as almost to nullify the influence of _such_ a man, _so_ pleading; while his dignity, his urbanity, his imperturbable serenity and good nature, his genuine purity and worth all fail, at times, to secure him from the grossest indignities, at the hands of the coarse and brutal. Nobody who knows him will be inclined to question our estimate of his character, but it still comports with the intelligence and refinement and piety of a large proportion of American society to label him “nigger,” and the name itself invites to safe contumely, and irresponsible violence.

I have spoken of Frederick Douglass as an interesting man--a wonderful man. Look at him as he stands to-day before this nation; and then contemplate his history.

Begin with him when, a little slave-child, he lay down on his rude pallet, and that slave-mother, from a plantation twelve miles away, availed herself of the privilege granted grudgingly, of travelling the whole distance, after the day’s work, (on peril of the lash, unless back again by sunrise to her task,) that she might lie there by his side, and sing him with her low sweet song to sleep. “I do not recollect,” says he, “of ever seeing my mother by the light of day. She was with me in the night. She would lie down with me, and get me to sleep, but long before I awaked, she was gone.” How touching the love of that dark-browed bondwoman for her boy! How precious must the memory of that dim but sweet remembrance be to him, who though once a vassal, bound and scourged, and still a Helot, proscribed and wronged, may not be robbed of this dear token that he, too, _had once a mother_! Her low sad lullaby yet warps his life’s dark woof--for she watches over his pathway now with spirit-eyes, and still keeps singing on in his heart, and nursing his courage and his patience.

Follow him through all the tempestuous experience of his bondage. His lashings, his longings, his perseverance in possessing himself of the key of knowledge, which, after all, only unlocked to him the fatal secret that he was a slave, a thing to be bought and sold like oxen. Imagine the tumult of his soul, as standing by the broad Chesapeake, he watched the receding vessels, “while they flew on their white wings before the breeze, and apostrophized them as animated by the living spirit of freedom;”[T] or when reading in a stray copy of the old “Columbian Orator,” (verily, all our school-books must be expurgated of the incendiary “perilous stuff” in which they abound,) the “Dialogue between a Master and his Slave,” and Sheridan’s great speech on Catholic Emancipation.[U] See to what heroic resistance his proud heart had swollen, when he turned outright upon his tormentor--pious Mr. Corey, the “nigger-breaker”--and inflicted condign retribution on his heartless ribs; “after which,” says he, significantly, “I was never whipped again; _I had several fights_, but was never whipped.” Attend him in his exodus from our republican Egypt. Witness his struggles with poverty; his vain attempts to find employment at his trade, as a colored man, in the _free_ North. Behold him at last emerging from his obscurity at the Anti-slavery Convention in Nantucket. Somebody, who is aware of his extraordinary natural intelligence, invites him to speak. Tremblingly he consents. “As soon as he had taken his seat,” said Mr. Garrison, after describing the tremendous effect of his remarks upon the audience, “filled with hope and admiration, I rose and declared that Patrick Henry, of revolutionary fame, never made a speech more eloquent in the cause of liberty, than the one we had just listened to from the hunted fugitive.”

That was just _eleven years_ ago,--and what is Frederick Douglass now? I would fain avoid the language of exaggeration. It is ever a cruel kindness which over-praises, exciting expectations, which cannot but be disappointed. But when, in view of the fact that the subject of this sketch was but thirteen years ago A SLAVE, in all the darkness and disability of Southern bondage, I affirm that his present character, attainments, and position constitute a phenomenon hitherto perhaps unprecedented in the history of intellectual and moral achievement, none who know and are competent to weigh the facts, will account the terms extravagant. It is not to be expected but that his mental condition should betray his early disadvantages. His information, though amazing, under the circumstances, will not of course bear comparison, in fulness and accuracy, with that of men who have been accumulating their resources from childhood. In his writings, the deficiency of early discipline is most manifest, rendering them diffuse and unequal, though always interesting, and often exceedingly effective. He is properly an _orator_. His addresses, like those of Whitfield, and many other popular speakers, lose a large proportion of their effect in reading. They require the living voice, and the magnetic presence of the orator. But even in this respect, Douglass is not uniform in his performance, but is quite dependent on his _surroundings_, and the inspiration of the moment. But when, all these consenting, he becomes thoroughly possessed of his theme, and his tall form--six feet high and straight as an arrow,--his bearing dignified and graceful,--self-possessed, yet modest,--his countenance flexible, and wonderful in power of expression, and his voice, with its rich and varied modulation, are all summoned to the work of enchantment, many a rapt assembly, insignificant in neither numbers nor intelligence, can testify to the witchery of his eloquence.

And, after all, the _moral_ features of this interesting character constitute its principal charm. The integrity and manliness of Frederick Douglass, potent and acknowledged where he is at all known, have much to do with his influence as a popular orator. It has been customary, with a certain class of Shibboleth-pronouncers to class him with infidels, but this is only the appropriate and characteristic retort of a certain sort of “highly respectable” Christianity to his uncompromising denunciations of its hollow and selfish character. _I_ think Frederick Douglass is a Christian; he is a gentleman, I _know_. There are few white men of my acquaintance, who could have borne so much adulation, without losing the balance of their self-appreciation. Nobody ever knew Frederick Douglass to over-rate himself, or to thrust himself anywhere where he did not belong, or upon anybody who might by any possibility object to his companionship,--unless, in the latter case, when he deemed necessary the assertion of a simple right. Whence he got his retiring and graceful modesty, and his nice sense of the minute proprieties,--unless it be somehow in his _blood_,--is a mystery to me. Can it be possible that such refinements are _scourged_ into men “down South?” An illustration of this may be seen in his response to those gentlemen of Rochester, who, by way of gratifying a grudge against the Anti-slavery faction of their party, nominated Douglass for Congress in derision.

“GENTLEMEN:--I have learned with some surprise, that in the Whig
Convention held in this city on Saturday last, you signified, by your
votes, a desire to make me your representative in the Legislature
of this State. Never having, at any time that I recollect, thought,
spoken, or acted, in any way, to commit myself to either the
principles or the policy of the Whig party; but on the contrary,
having always held, and publicly expressed opinions diametrically
opposed to those held by that part of the Whig party which you are
supposed to represent, your voting for me, I am bound in courtesy to
suppose, is founded in a misapprehension of my political sentiments.

“Lest you should, at any other time, commit a similar blunder, I
beg to state, once for all, that I do not believe that the slavery
question is settled, and settled forever. I do not believe that
slave-catching is either a Christian duty, or an innocent amusement.
I do not believe that he who breaks the arm of the kidnapper, or
wrests the trembling captive from his grasp is ‘a traitor.’ I do not
believe that Daniel Webster is the saviour of the Union, nor that the
Union stands in need of such a saviour. I do not believe that human
enactments are to be obeyed when they are point-blank against the law
of the living God. And believing most fully, as I do, the reverse of
all this, you will easily believe me to be a person wholly unfit to
receive the suffrages of gentlemen holding the opinion and favoring
the policy of that wing of the Whig party denominated ‘the _Silver
Grays_.’

“With all the respect which your derision permits me to entertain for
you,

I am, gentlemen,

Your faithful fellow-citizen,

FREDERICK DOUGLASS.”

The perpetrators of the wanton and gratuitous insult which elicited this beautiful rebuke, would be sadly outraged, were we to insist on withholding the title of “Gentlemen” from those who could, on any pretence, trample on the feelings of such as they esteem their inferiors. If they half begin to comprehend the meaning of the term, much more to feel its power, their cheeks must have crimsoned with shame, when they saw their own unprovoked assault, contrasted with the calm and self-respectful serenity of this reply.

Another instance of this dignity under circumstances of peculiar trial, may be found in his own account--in the columns of “Frederick Douglass’ paper”--of a rencontre with a hotel clerk in Cleveland. It is as follows:

At the ringing of the morning bell for breakfast, I made my way to the table, supposing myself included in the call; but I was scarcely seated, when there stepped up to me a young man, apparently much agitated, saying: “Sir, you must leave this table.” “And why,” said I, “must I leave this table?” “I want no controversy with you. You must leave this table.” I replied, “that I had regularly enrolled myself as a boarder in that house; I expected to pay the same charges imposed upon others; and I came to the table in obedience to the call of the bell; and if I left the table I must know the reason.” “We will serve you in your room. It is against our rules.” “You should have informed me of _your rules_ earlier. Where are your rules? Let me see them.” “I don’t want any altercation with you. You must leave this table.” “But have I not deported myself as a gentleman? What have I done? Is there any gentleman who objects to my being seated here?” (There was silence round the table.) “Come, sir, come, sir, you must leave this table at once.” “Well, sir, I cannot leave it unless you will give me a better reason than you have done for my removal.” “Well, I’ll give you a reason if you’ll leave the table and go to another room.” “That, sir, I will not do. You have invidiously selected me out of all this company, to be dragged from this table, and have thereby reflected upon me as a man and a gentleman; and the reason for this treatment shall be as public as the insult you have offered.” At these remarks, my carrot-headed assailant left me, _as he said_, to get help to remove me from the table. Meanwhile I called upon one of the servants (who appeared to wait upon me with alacrity) to help me to a cup of coffee, and assisting myself to some of the good things before me, I quietly and thankfully partook of my morning meal without further annoyance.

Whatever may have been the duty of Mr. Douglass, (and none who know him can for a moment doubt what his inclination would have been,) in case the proscriptive “rules of the house” had been previously made known to him, the justice, as well as the gentlemanly self-possession of his bearing, in relation to this public outrage, must, I think, be sufficiently obvious.

* * * * *

Rob^t. R. Raymond

THE HEROIC SLAVE-WOMAN.

It was my privilege to see much of Edward S. Abdy, Esq., of England, during his visit to our country, in 1833 and 1834. The first time I met him was at the house of Mr. James Forten, of Philadelphia, in company with two other English gentlemen, who had come to the United States, commissioned by the British Parliament to examine our systems of prison and penitentiary discipline. Mr. Abdy was interested in whatsoever affected the welfare of man. But he was more particularly devoted to the investigation of slavery. He travelled extensively in our Southern States, and contemplated with his own eyes the manifold abominations of our American despotism. He was too much exasperated by our tyranny to be enamoured of our democratic institutions; and on his return to England, he published two very sensible volumes, that were so little complimentary to our nation, that our booksellers thought it not worth their while to republish them.

This warm-hearted philanthropist visited me several times at my home in Connecticut. The last afternoon that he was there, we were sitting together at my study window, when our attention was arrested by a very handsome carriage driving up to the hotel opposite my house. A gentleman and lady occupied the back seat; and on the front were two children tended by a black woman, who wore the turban, that was then more than now, usually worn by _slave_ women.

We hastened over to the hotel, and soon entered into conversation with the slave-holder. He was polite, but somewhat nonchalant, and defiant of our sympathy with his victim. He readily acknowledged, as slave-holders of that day generally did, that, abstractly considered, the enslavement of fellow men was a great wrong; but then he contended that it had become a necessary evil, necessary to the enslaved, no less than to the enslavers; the former being unable to do without masters, as much as the latter were to do without servants. And he added, in a very confident tone, “you are at liberty to persuade our servant-woman to remain here, if you can.”

Thus challenged, we of course sought an interview with the slave; and informed her that having been brought by her master into the free States, she was, by the laws of the land, set at liberty. “No, I am not, gentlemen,” was her prompt reply. We adduced cases, and quoted authorities to establish our assertion that she was free. But she significantly shook her head, and still insisted that the examples and the legal decisions did not reach her case. “For,” said she, “_I promised_ mistress that I would go back with her and the children.” Mr. Abdy undertook to argue with her that such a promise was not binding. He had been drilled in the moral philosophy of Dr. Paley, and in that debate seemed to be possessed of its spirit. But he failed to make any visible impression upon the woman. She had bound herself by a promise to her mistress, that she would not leave her; and that promise had fastened upon her conscience an obligation, from which she could not be persuaded, that even her natural right to liberty could exonerate her. Mr. Abdy at last was impatient with her, and said, in his haste, “is it possible that you do not wish to be free?” She replied with solemn earnestness, “was there ever a slave that did not wish to be free? I long for liberty. I will get out of slavery, if I can, the day after I have returned, but go back I must, because I _promised_ that I would.” At this, we desisted from our endeavor to induce her to take the boon that was, apparently to us, within her reach. We could not but feel a profound respect for that moral sensibility which would not allow her to embrace even her freedom, at the expense of violating a promise.

The next morning, at an early hour, the slave-holder with his wife and children drove off, leaving the slave-woman and their heaviest trunk to be brought on after them in the stage-coach. We could not refrain from again trying to persuade her to remain and be free. We told her that her master had given us leave to persuade her if we could. She pointed to the trunk, and to a very valuable gold watch and chain, which her mistress had committed to her care, and insisted that fidelity to a trust was of more consequence to her soul even than the attainment of liberty. Mr. Abdy offered to take the trunk and watch into his charge, follow her master, and deliver them into his hands. But she could not be made to see that in this there would be no violation of her duty. And then her own person, that, too, she had promised should be returned to the home of her master; and much as she longed for liberty, she longed for a clear conscience more.

Mr. Abdy was astonished, delighted at this instance of heroice virtue in a poor, ignorant slave. He packed his trunk, gave me a hearty adieu, and, when the coach drove up, he took his seat on the outside with the trunk and the slave--chattels of a Mississippi slave-holder--that he might study for a few hours more the morality of that strong-hearted woman, who could not be bribed to violate her promise, even by the gift of liberty.

It was the last time I saw Mr. Abdy,--and it was a sight to be remembered,--he an accomplished English gentleman, a Fellow of Oxford or Cambridge University, riding on the driver’s box of a stage-coach, side by side with an American slave-woman, that he might learn more of her history and character.

“Full many a gem, of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”

Yours, respectfully,

Samuel J. May
SYRACUSE, OCT. 9, 1852.

KOSSUTH.

You ask me what I think of Kossuth. The history of Kossuth is but partly told. An opinion of him now, is, of course, founded on the past and present. But so decisive have been the manifestations in regard to his abilities and aims, that we may confidently say he is the great man of the age. I don’t mean that there is no other man who is responsible for as great or greater physical and intellectual endowments and education. We measure men by what they _do_, not by what they are _able_ to do. He is great, because he has manifested great thoughts and corresponding deeds. In this regard he has no superior.

When I speak of Kossuth as _great_, I mean that the divine elements of power, wisdom, and goodness are so mixed in him, as to qualify him to embrace the largest interests, and attract the agencies to secure those interests. That his eye sees, and his heart feels, and his philanthropy embraces a larger area, and is acknowledged by a larger portion of the human family than any other living man. I do not say there are not men living whose hearts are as large, whose abilities are as great, and whose virtues are as exalted as Kossuth’s. Men, too, whose great qualities under like contingencies would, and by future contingencies may, brighten into a glory as large as his. Nor would I say it does not often require as great, or even greater talents and virtues to accomplish deeds of humanity or patriotism on a theatre vastly less dazzling and imposing. It is not necessary to my argument to exclude such conclusions. When God decrees great events, he brings upon the stage and qualifies the human instrumentalities by which such events are accomplished; and that, too, at the very time they are needed. We don’t know the future; but if we are to measure the present and the past in the life of Kossuth, leaving alone the shadows which coming events cast in the path of our hopes, we must rank Kossuth with the greatest, and if we couple his heart with his deeds, with the best of mankind.

I am aware that the opinion I here give of the great Magyar, is widely different from the opinions of some others for whom I have very high respect. Gerrit Smith honors Kossuth; but he honors him only as a patriot, a christian patriot. Professor Atler of McGranville College in an oration that does him credit as a philosopher and orator, says, that “he who thinks the largest thought is the ruler of the world,”--and yet he dwarfs the character of Kossuth to the simple patriot of Hungary. To my mind, these are strange conclusions. It is the greatest thoughts illustrated by corresponding action that denotes the ruler of the world. It is the external manifestation of the mighty spiritual that demonstrates the right to rule mankind. Apply that rule to Kossuth, and I maintain his right to the sceptre of the world.

The brotherhood of nations is an idea to which philanthropy only could give birth. Its home is in the hearts of all good men, and yet, until Kossuth came before the world, that idea had been esteemed so vast in its circumference, so out of the reach of means, so far beyond the grasp of present experience and possibility, that he would have been thought a fanatic or a fool who attempted it. He, indeed, by power strictly personal, not only seized upon it as a practical thought, and nobly argued it, but has actually and bravely entered upon the experiment, and forced it upon the conceptions of the world, and organized, not in our country only, but in Europe, plans and parties for its realization. Here is not only a great _thought_, but a great _deed_. To gather up the philanthropic minds or the patriot minds of the world to embrace such an enterprise as not only a dutiful but practicable scheme, is an achievement that leaves out of sight any other achievement of eighteen hundred years.

It is not the development of abstract principles in science, in philosophy, or in religion, that establishes the highest claim to the world’s gratitude and admiration. It is the successful application of those principles to human life and conduct, the setting them to work to restore the world to the shape and aspect which God gave it, that demonstrates the God-like in man. It is the manifestation of a great idea upon the external, as God’s great thoughts are manifested by the landscape, the ocean, and the heavens, by which we arrive at the spiritual power that conceived them. A patriot indeed! The great Hungarian _did_ attempt to link America to his great purpose by appeals to her patriotism. It was the only common sentiment between our country and him. It is America’s loftiest thought. Her beau-ideal of public virtue. I don’t mean that there was no Christianity or philanthropy in the United States when Kossuth came amongst us; but I do mean that, as a nation, we had none of them. He came on an errand of practical philanthropy; to appeal to our national heart, and cause the only cord of humanity in it that could be touched, to vibrate in unison with his own in behalf of the down-trodden nations of the world. He wished to engage its organic power in behalf of national law. Had Kossuth appealed to any higher principle, he would have overshot his mark. Love of country is common, to the Christian and to the mere patriot. In the latter it is only selfishness, in the former genuine philanthropy. American patriotism was the only aperture through which he could reach our nation’s heart, to raise it to the higher region of philanthropy, and place it in his own bosom, and impregnate it with his own holy sentiments, that their sympathies might circulate together for a common brotherhood. He represented Hungary. He appeared at our door as an outraged brother, to enlist us in behalf of a brother’s rights and wrongs. He sought to excite in the nation’s bosom the activity of a common principle, due at all times, and from nations no less than individuals. It is the core of Christianity, described in these words, “do unto others as you would have others do unto you.”

Our Washington had told us “to cultivate peace with all nations, and form entangling alliances with none.” Our sensual and short-sighted statesmen construed the sentiment as the rule of active power. Instead of adopting it as Washington probably intended it, as a rule of temporary policy, they inculcated the notion that we were to cut ourselves clear from the family of nations, and live only for ourselves. The large patriotism of Washington they had shrunken to the merest selfishness. We may well thank God for the providence which sent Kossuth among us, to relieve his fame from the suspicion of having begot, and our country from the sin of cherishing, so weak and dishonoring a delusion. Heaven-assisted man only could have dreamed of believing a nation so securely blinded. Like the prophet of God, whose lips were touched with celestial fire, he breathed upon the spell, and it vanished. The nation’s eyes were opened. It saw, and all true men admitted, that the sentiment was designed and adapted only to our infancy, and, to use his own figure, no more fitting our manhood, than the clothes of an infant are fitting the full grown man.

Now I admit we had philanthropists, wise men, orators, and some statesmen, who asserted the doctrine of the human brotherhood, yet we had no Kossuth to dissolve (if I may so speak) this Washingtonian delusion. Kossuth touched it and it disappeared. The nation seemed to have come to a new birth. Its heart, like the rock in the desert which was touched by the staff of the prophet, opened, and its imprisoned waters poured over the world. We all felt as the bondman feels who is set free by a strong man. From that moment we grew larger, saw farther, and felt our hearts moving over an unlimited area of humanity. From that moment we felt that a new day was dawning. From that moment the principle of the human brotherhood struck its deep roots in our soil, as immovable as our mountains, as irradicable as our religion. Nor was it in America alone that this sentiment was then awakened. Touched by his notes, it trembled in the bosom of Europe. The heart of humanity throbbed with a common sympathy throughout the civilized world. Kossuth and Mazzini, crushed from beneath, ascended above the despotisms of the world in the clear upper sky, and, in sight of heaven and earth, reflected God’s light and curse upon them; and called into being the activities which we hope is to tumble them in a common ruin, as the precursor of the holy compact which shall secure all human rights.

It is objected that Kossuth did not denounce our slavery. The same objection has equal strength against the philanthropy of Paul and Jesus. I shall not dwell on this point. He did denounce American slavery. The presence of Kossuth was a killing rebuke, his words a consuming fire to it. The former is still felt as an incurable wound, and the latter still scorches to the very centre of its vitality. I have it from high authority, when Kossuth first came upon the soil, and into the atmosphere of American slavery, his soul was so shocked and disgusted by its offensiveness, that he proposed to abandon his mission in those States where it existed, and denounce it specifically; and was only deterred from doing so, by his sense of the more comprehensive claims of that mission, which embraced the utter destruction of all human oppression. I drop this topic with the remark, that this objection, and all objections to his philanthropy, within my knowledge, were made antecedent to his inimitable speech in New York city, in behalf of his mother and sisters, a short time before he took his departure for Europe. If there is not Christianity, philanthropy, anti-slavery in that speech, we may despair of finding it in earth, or even in the heavens. I have never read anything so representative of heaven’s mercy, or angels’ eloquence, as that. Oh! I wish the world knew it by heart. Methinks if it did, all wrong and oppression would disappear from among men.

I was going to speak of the future, and of Mazzini, the twin apostle of liberty, whose exile was wrung from the heart of poor Italy. But the subject exceeds the brevity which must govern me. These rulers of the world are linked with the mighty events which are fast becoming history. From their hiding-places in London, they are moving and controlling the passions which seem ready to break forth and obliterate every cruel code under the sun, and hasten the time when all men shall feel as brethren, and mingle their hearts in anthems of gratitude and love.

John Thomas
SYRACUSE, NOV. 14, 1852.

THE HEROIC SLAVE.